A Bit Annoying
by VictorianChik
Summary: Peter's note to self - next time Neal gets under the weather, let someone else take care of him. Sequel to "A Bit Clueless" - mild discipline of an adult
1. Tissues

This is a sequel to "A Bit Clueless." Hope you enjoy this two part story.

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Neal is the most annoying person I know. Frustrating and sneaky and lying and a whole bunch of other things that annoy me.

So yes, I might have whupped him for stealing my car, and even though El nagged me about it, I still don't think I was wrong. She's always too soft on Caffrey, babying him to no end because he gives her those big puppy eyes. Well, those don't work on me.

I expected a bunch of grief from him for paddling him and sticking him in the corner. I admit my temper got the better of me, but he thrives off annoying me which is not nice.

And it's hard sometimes working with someone who you spent years tracking down. If he hadn't been bad in the first place, he wouldn't have been in prison. Of course, we wouldn't be partners, either, but that's no excuse for being bad.

What El and most people don't get is the fact that my job is hard. Every time I track someone down, I have to imagine that person as the enemy. I can't be all nice and kind and think "Oh, they broke the law, but I'm sure they're a good person in spite of it." No, I have to think of them as a ruthless, desperate enemy who wants to evade and hurt me because I'm after them. I thought that about Neal for years so now it's kind of hard to turn it off all the sudden because he's my partner. For the first few weeks we worked together, I thought "Criminal who must be subdued and apprehended immediately" every time he walked up.

But despite that, I had to promise El that I wouldn't get into a habit of using corporal punishment on unruly partners, and then she finally let me leave the house. We joke a lot about who's in charge, but I'm pretty sure she wears the pants in our house so I had to agree to make sure Neal was okay after what I had done to him. The things we do for love.

Neal met me at the office, but he was all stand-back and big eyes, watching me carefully. Rather than follow El's advice, I didn't stay anything about punishing him, and we got right into the case that we had started the day before. Neal seemed a little jumpier than usual, and I swear he kept getting so close I nearly tripped over him every time I turned around. I finally sat him down in a chair and started discussing the case, and he relaxed a little.

He didn't bring up the spanking either, and over the next few days it took us to solve the case, everything went back to normal. He went back to being his annoying self, and I bore him with my usual heroic effort. I think I should get a prize for working with him. It's not like the whole FBI likes having a criminal around, and they keep making it crystal clear that if Neal screws up, I'm going to be held partly responsible. Not exactly fair.

A week later, Neal showed just how annoying he can be. I took a long weekend off to take El to visit some family in upstate New York. Before I left, I told Neal I would be checking on him everyday so no shenanigans. He rolled his eyes and assured me he would be good.

Friday, it poured the whole way there, and El and I got to have a long trip through the rain with Satchmo in the back, both of us talking and listening to music.

Over the weekend, I checked Neal's tracker and he didn't even leave June's. I thought maybe he had settled down finally, and I didn't bother checking in on him when we returned Sunday night.

Monday morning, I went into the office early and was ready to get to work on a new case when I realized it was almost nine-thirty and no Neal.

I called his cell – no answer.

His tracker said he was still at June's house. I considered calling her, but Caffrey was supposed to be renting a room. He wasn't her grandson or anything.

I would handle this myself. I stormed out of the office, promising Lauren I would be back, and drove all the way to June's, fuming.

She met me at the door, smiling. "Oh, hello, Peter. Are you here to see Neal?"

"Yeah, where is he?" I tried not to growl.

"Upstairs. He's barely left his room all weekend. Hasn't gone out since Friday. I thought maybe he had a young lady up there, but I hated to pry."

I stomped up the stairs to Neal's room. I banged on the door once, and then jerked it open. I expected to see one of two things: Neal with some hot girl or an empty room with the tracker hacked into two pieces. I know the tracker's unbreakable, but it's Neal, after all.

What I actually saw surprised me.

In his boxers, tee shirt, and ratty bathrobe, Neal sat on the sofa, surrounded by a pile of used tissues. His face was flushed, his nose looked red-raw, and he had a bottle of water in one hand.

"Oh, hi, Peter," he said through a stuffed-up nose. "Thorry – I was going to call."

"Are you sick?" I demanded though it was rather obvious.

"No," he shook his head and then winced. Grabbing another tissue, he tried to blow his nose, but it was so stuffy he could barely blow. "I'm about to get dressed and come help you."

My mouth twitched with a smile. Gone was the cool, suave con-artist who flirted and smirked and thought he knew it all. He had been replaced by a sniffling, sick guy whose teeth chattered slightly as he sat there with legs bared to the knee. Idiot kid.

"You're sick," I announced. "How'd you get sick?"

"First, I'm not," he assured me, his breathing short since he couldn't get any air through his nose. "And second, getting wet in the rain doesn't make anyone sick."

"You got wet in the rain? On Friday?" I frowned.

He nodded and took a sip of water, most of it dribbling on his shirt. "I didn't want to change because I'd have to come back here to get out of my wet clothes, and I was out with Moz. But I must have been allergic to something that night, because I started sneezing and sneezing and then –"

Neal sneezed hard, his whole body shaking. He gave a groan and leaned his head back.

"Sounds like you got a sinus infection," I commented. "El gets them sometimes. Your mucus green yet?"

"Uh, Peter, that's gross," he made a face.

"Yeah, but that's what happens when you get a sinus infection. You're not coughing so it's not bronchitis, yet. You'll need some antibiotics and cold medicine. What did the doctor say?"

Neal gave a pathetic shake of his head. "No, no doctor. I'll heal eventually. I'm really healthy." He rubbed a tissue over his raw nose.

"Not today," I retorted. "As much as I would like to tell you to suck it up, you need the drugs, buddy. Who's your doctor? – oh, wait, I guess you don't have one since you've been locked up so long."

Neal gave me a mean look. "Brilliant, Sherlock."

"You can use mine," I whipped out my cellphone. "He does favors for the FBI sometimes. A year ago, his youngest daughter got caught stealing drugs from his office and we cut the kid a break when we caught her. She went to college at NYU, and he lets us make last minute appointments. Yes, this is Peter Burke with the FBI."

"No, no," Neal tried to flay his arms in denial, but I angled my body away from him.

"Yeah, I need to make an appointment for a – uh, partner of mine. I'm guessing it's a sinus infection and he's in pretty bad shape . . . Forty-five minutes? See you then."

I shut the phone closed. "All right, get dressed and I'll drop you off."

"No," Neal shook his head, his face serious. "I'm not going. I don't like doctors, and I don't want to go to yours. I'll stay here and be better in a few days."

"Nonsense, we're getting you some medicine," I frowned.

"You can drag me there, but you can't make me see him," Neal pulled his legs in, huddling in a shaky, sniffling ball. "I went years in prison without going to the doctor – if I can stay healthy in prison, I can certainly – certainly – _ah-choo_!" he sneezed loudly and groaned again. He laid his head on his knee. "Just go away."

"You're my responsibility now," I felt my frustration rising a little. "Get dressed and let's go there. Time is ticking."

When he didn't move, I lowered my voice, "Neal."

"Go away!" he was muffled by his knee.

"Neal, you're going to go get dressed and we're going to the doctor's. This is one time I'm not listening to any arguing."

"One time?" he lifted his anguished face. "You boss me around all the time."

I snapped my fingers at him. "Are you going to get moving or I am going to have to drag you down there in handcuffs and your underwear?"

"But I feel so bad," he stood up dizzily. "Why can't you see that? Why can't you just leave?"

He shuffled into his bedroom and started moaning softly as he searched for something to wear.

"Something warm," I cautioned as I waited impatiently. "No silly suits today – it's still cold and dreary. Jeans and a wool jacket."

"You can't tell me what to wear," he retorted, but he was so stopped up the words didn't sound very serious. "I could get away if I wanted, so why don't you just leave?"

I made no reply and he shuffled out, wearing jeans and a tee shirt.

"You got a coat, right?" I questioned.

He nodded sadly and then whimpered, "Don't take me to the doctor's. We can go by the pharmacy, and we can get stuff there."

"Cowboy up," I smiled. "It's just a doctor's visit. Don't tell me you're scared of shots."

He stepped back, and his blue eyes flew up to my face. "There's going to be shots? No, I'm not going. They are not sticking needles into me."

I blinked. He had a needle phobia. All right, I'm a bit mean, but my first thought was how I could torment him with this new information. Not exactly nice of me, but hey, it's Neal.

"Shots don't hurt that much," I assured him.

"I'm not going, and you can't make me," he grabbed a tissue and rubbed his nose hard with it.

I wanted to disagree with him and remind him that I was bigger, older, and stronger, plus I had a gun on me, but I knew El would have my head if she knew I pushed Neal around when he was sick. So a little maneuvering.

"Okay, we're going to the pharmacy," I shrugged. "Get your coat and some tissues and let's go."

He cast me a suspicious look but then he went along and got a warm coat. I got him downstairs and in my car. His teeth were chattering as he leaned back in the passenger's seat, and I turned the heat on full-blast as I pulled the car onto the road. Neal didn't talk much, and his flushed cheeks and clammy skin worried me a little. From what El had told me about sinus infections, it feels like someone has filled your nasal cavities with cement that hurts when you breathe.

As much as Neal gets on my nerves, I didn't want him to feel bad so I drove a little faster than I had to. He looked kind of glazed over, and he didn't really pay attention until we pulled into the parking lot.

"This isn't the pharmacy," he realized as he stared at the tall building.

"No, it's the doctor's," I parked the car.

"Peter," big blue eyes full of hurt and betrayal.

"We'll go to the pharmacy afterward."

He reached for the door handle and I lunged out of my seat. I caught him fifteen feet from the car, snagging his arm as he started sneezing and wheezing and begging me to let him go.

"Peter, don't. Not here. I swear I'll take the medicine, anything you want. I don't need the doctor's. I haven't had a check-up since I was seventeen. I don't need a doctor."

"Seventeen?" I barked at him as I herded him back to the car to shut the doors and head towards the building. "You've been lucky you haven't come down with something. Don't push against me, Neal. I'm not letting you go. This is for your own good, and you know it."

He kept moaning about how he would be fine if I would just let him go, but I got him in the building, in the elevator to the fourth floor, and into the waiting room with minimal fuss. Sometimes it's better to let Neal get some of his energy out before we go anywhere important, and I could put up with squirming in the elevator as long as he didn't pitch a fit in the waiting room.

I took Neal with me to the check-in desk and smiled at the receptionist. "Peter Burke here, signing in one Mr. Neal Caffrey."

"Please fill out the chart and return it," she gave me the standard chart on a clipboard with a pen. "We'll get you back as soon as you fill this out."

"Sure," I got Neal to sit down with me.

He was breathing shortly and glancing around the room as if he expected needles to jump out of nowhere else.

"Am I going to have to fill this out for you?" I asked, holding out the clipboard.

"I'm not filling it out because we're not staying," he threatened. "We're leaving right now."

"Look around," I whispered to him. "It's a family physician. We got little kids playing in the corner with mom, grandma and daughter over there, regular people just going to the doctor. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. So fill out the chart and stop sulking."

He took the chart with a hateful look and wrote Nicholas Halden in the name slot.

"Neal," I warned.

"You didn't say I had to put in the right information," he complained.

"Do you really want to have this conversation here?" my voice was low, but it held the same sternness I had used the afternoon I disciplined him.

He looked up with that same expression he always wore when I backed him into a corner. That's the thing that most people don't get about Neal. They think he should be bullied and threatened to keep him in line, but I've found that calling him on his nonsense and not letting him get away with foolishness helps the most. I don't know what Neal's father was like or if he even had one, but Neal responds to parental guidance like no one I have ever seen before – a mixture of guilt and eagerness to please.

The guy is a mess.

He tried to sniff, but he could no longer breathe through his nose, and he looked sicker than ever.

I took the chart from him and scratched out the name. I quickly wrote down the relevant information.

"You remember my address?" Neal looked surprised as he watched me jot down June's address.

"Yes, I do," I smiled with satisfaction. Neal always thinks I'm dumb; he needs constant reminders that I'm the one who caught him twice and that I'm checking up on him all the time. "Okay, medical history? What family illnesses do you remember?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "Can we just skip that part?"

I wondered what type of family history he had at all, but I obliged him by turning the sheet over and filling in the blanks about his reason for the doctor's visit. When I wrote _sinus infection_, he protested,

"Shouldn't the doctor diagnose me?"

"Maybe," I held the pen out to him. "Sign and date and let's get this show on the road."

"I hate your euphemisms," he mumbled as he took the pen and signed.

We had to wait a total of three minutes before they called us back. I wondered if anyone thought it was strange that two grown men were going back together, but I wasn't letting Neal go alone. He would charm the nurses and walk out five minutes later without any examination at all.

"Peter," he pleaded as we followed the nurse down the hallway, "I'm fine."

_Fine_ came out sounding more like _find_, and I gave into an impulse and told him, "Be a good boy, and we'll get you a lollypop at the end."

"I'm not a child," he growled though it was not scary due to his garbled words.

The nurse grinned at us as she opened the door. "It's okay. A lot of people don't like coming to the doctor. Mr. Caffrey, if you'll slip off your shoes and coat, I'll weigh you down the hall."

"I'll wait here," I sat down on one of the chairs in the room. "You better come back." I pointed a finger at him.

Neal slowly bent to slip off his shoes. I knew from his lethargic movements that his head was killing him when he leaned down. Not sick, my eye!

He went with the nurse and came back. She had him sit up on the padded table and she went about gathering his vitals. Neal looked like he was about to be tortured. He got scared when she placed the thermometer in his ear and clicked it take his temperature. He jumped like someone had held a gun to his head and cocked the trigger. He freaked out slightly when she put the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and when the nurse pumped it, he protested,

"You're squeezing it off!"

"Shh," she frowned at him as she listened to the stethoscope.

He relaxed once she loosened the cuff and put it away, but the otoscope with the plastic caps and shining light looked too much like a shot and he nearly leaped off the table.

"What are you doing? What are you doing?" he demanded as she placed it in his right ear to look in, her free hand tilting his jaw.

"Just a routine examination," the nurse's voice was soothing. "Turn your head to the other side. Good. A lot of fluid in your ears."

She looked in his nose and mouth and reported that everything was inflamed. She jotted everything in Neal's chart and then promised us the doctor would be in shortly.

"Well," Neal sounded rather shaky, "I survived that. Can we leave now?"

"The doctor has to come see you," I tried to hide my smile. "Relax, nothing has been too horrid yet, right?"

"What do you think is in the cabinets?" he looked over at the closed cabinets over the sink.

"Supplies," I reached for a magazine to flip through.

"What do you think is in the jars? Oh, jeez, are those eyeballs?"

I looked at the jars. "Cotton balls."

"Are those white bones?"

"Q-tips."

"And the stick things?"

"They press your tongue down so the doctor can look in your mouth. Really, Neal, I know it's been over a decade, but don't you remember going to the doctor as a kid?"

"No, this place is terrifying. I'm telling Elizabeth you dragged me against my will."

"Go right ahead," I tossed the magazine aside and grabbed another one. "El doesn't play around when it comes to being sick. You want to know how many times she made me come to the doctor even though I protested I was fine?"

Neal did not have to answer because the next moment Dr. Howards came in, holding the chart. "Ah, Peter."

I stood up and we shook hands.

"What have we here?" Howards looked over Neal and then at the chart.

"Partner's got himself a sinus infection."

"Peter's not a doctor," Neal said stuffily.

"Doesn't sound good," Howards put the chart on the counter and washed his hands as I took a seat again. "Other than that, this young fellow looks in pretty good shape."

"I'm fine," Neal scooted back on the table a few inches as Howards came at him with the stethoscope.

I gave Neal my sternest look, and he managed to hold himself still long enough to let Howards listen to his heart and breathing. Neal was definitely uncomfortable while the doctor tapped on his sinuses and felt around his throat for swelling. I didn't mind. A little discomfort is good for Neal as it usually keeps him out of trouble; it helps him remember just how uncomfortable prison can be.

Howards asked no questions about why I was back there in the room or why Neal was so skittish. After the trouble his daughter got into, Howards figured the less he knew the better. I didn't try to tell him how to do his job and he didn't tell me how to do mine.

"Definitely a sinus infection," Dr. Howards reported at the end of the examination.

I tried not to look too satisfied with myself while Neal shot me death glares.

"I'm proscribing antibiotics and a decongestant and a steroid shot," Howards began scribbling down on the prescription pad.

"Whoa, whoa," Neal put both hands up, "back up. Steroid shot? Isn't that illegal?"

"For athletes, not sinus infections," I told him.

"I believe I was asking the doctor," Neal retorted.

"Nurse Reeves will give you the shot," Howards announced, "and I'm give you samples to last for two days, and a prescription for a week after that."

I put my hand out for the prescription and he handed it to me and shook my hand. Then he turned and grabbed Neal's hand in a warm shake. "Nice to meet you. Peter, great to see you, too. Take care of yourselves."

"I am not getting a shot," Neal declared after the doctor left. "You dragged me here to be poked and prodded and dehumanized, but I'm not letting anyone stick a needle in me."

"You'll feel better after the steroid shot," I told him.

He shook his head, and I saw the trapped, frantic look in his eyes. He was getting himself worked up.

"Hey, hey," I cut through his panic. "I wouldn't ask you to do something if I thought it would really hurt you. Yes, the shot will hurt for a moment, but it's going to make you feel better, and the rest of the medicine will help you heal. In a few days, you'll be back to normal, and you'll come back to work."

He gave me a worried, nervous look, his blue eyes still darting around as if looking for an escape.

"Would it help if I got a shot, too?" I asked.

"You're not sick!"

"No, but they could stick me with a needle just so you can see that it's not that bad," I offered. I didn't enjoy getting stuck, but I thought it might help calm Neal.

"I don't want to watch them stick you with needles," Neal gripped the edge of the table. "Please, can't we –"

The nurse came in with the tray. The tray held a vial of medicine and a sharp syringe covered in plastic.


	2. Needles

Thanks to supergirl for betaing! I really appreciate it.

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Peter was a jerk! I could not believe how mean he was being when I felt so bad. I wasn't sick, but even if I was (which I was a little), that was no reason for him to push me around. Who died and made him king of New York? Who made him boss of me? (Okay, I did a little when I got him to release me from prison into his custody, but that was still beside the point.)

All I wanted was for him to leave me alone in my misery at June's, but he had to show up, like some general, and start ordering me about. Get dressed, get in the car, sit still! And he lied – he _lied_! – to me and tricked me into going to the doctor's. He would pay for that later.

And I had to get prodded and probed like a lab rat, and no one listened to me though it was my body – my body, not Peter's and I should know what was best for myself and not Peter, who apparently thinks he's God – and then the doctor decided I needed a shot. He didn't ask me. There was no "Oh, Mr. Caffrey, since you've been so obliging to come here at the request of the man over there who is clearly a bully or a dictator and seems to be enjoying your agony, we would like to know if you think a shot would help you feel better. If you decide it would not help, then we understand and trust your judgment because you are clearly the smartest person in the room, including the brute in the corner who trampled over everyone to bring you here and should clearly be locked up for assault and insanity and being a mean man."

Nobody wanted to hear my opinion, and I knew I would have to sit there and endure the shot which I planned to do just to show Peter I could take pain better than he could. This was war – every man for himself and I could take ten shots without flinching while I knew Peter would cry at the first one. His whole "I'll take one to show you it doesn't hurt" was just a bluff.

And I would have been resolved the entire time, except that another nurse came in with a tray with the _shot on top of it!!!_

It was like "Here's your dinner, Mr. Caffrey. Is it _cardon bleu_ and fine wine that you could appreciate? No, it's a long needle to scare you!"

Worst surprise ever.

The nurse set the tray on the table, looking all calm and bored like she did this all the time, just another patient to torture with a horrible long needle and stinging medicine.

I really did mean to show Peter I didn't care, but my body obviously had other plans. Before I could stop myself, I flew out on my seat and made a dash for the door. Peter caught me there, and we had a desperate tug of war over the door.

He managed to shut it, barely avoiding my fingers (guess he didn't care if they got smashed), and he strong-armed me back toward the table.

"Is he all right?" the nurse finally looked alarmed.

"He's fine," Peter had me by the arms, and while it didn't hurt too much, I couldn't escape him despite my squirming. The guy is like a rock, blast him, and I might as well try to shove against a wall.

"I take it he doesn't like shots," the nurse observed.

"Brilliant," I snarled.

"You want to give it in his arm or should he bend over the table?" the hard-hearted brute asked.

"No, I won't," I declared.

"We could give it to him in a pill instead," the nurse said doubtfully.

"Yes, that," I nodded.

"No, not that," Peter barked. "He's a grown man and he can take a shot. He spent four years in prison – a needle can't be that scary."

The nurse raised an eyebrow at me. "Well, still . . . we have people who are scared of needles. In fact, we don't have that many patients who like needles . . . but some do not like the idea at all and cry at the sight of them."

I was about to relax when Peter quipped, "Are the scared patients children?"

Bastard!

"Usually," the nurse nodded, "but we don't have –"

"I'm not babysitting a child," Peter growled. "Now, you take this shot, or I'll treat you like a child from now on."

I wanted to stomp on his foot and yelled that he treated me like a child anyway what with the tracker and condescending language and paddling me last week, but I scowled and muttered, "Fine, I'll take it."

Peter didn't relax his grip on my arms, not trusting me as usual.

"Pull your shirt up and turn around," the nurse directed as she pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, snapping them sadistically. "I'll give it to you high on your hip."

That sounded awful, not even being able to see it, but I reached down and pulled up my tee shirt. Peter let my arms go, but he was close enough that he could grab me if I decided to bolt. I glared at him and turned to the table, leaning forward just enough to angle my body out. My pants were tugged down about an inch, and something cold touched my skin, just above my right butt cheek. I jumped.

"Relax, it's just the antiseptic," the nurse said.

It was so humiliating, and my head ached and my throat hurt and my sinuses felt like they were going to explode, and everyone was so mean to me while I felt so sick, and I wasn't sick, and I was going to get stuck with a needle because Peter liked to hurt me.

I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, and Peter said, "Steady, it will be over in a moment."

I felt the nurse slap over where she had wiped, and I opened my eyes wide at the injustice of that. She slapped again, and then grabbed a handful of my flesh back there. The prick of the needle wasn't that bad, but I felt the medicine sting.

I had been frisked in prison and put in solitary once, but none of that was as embarrassing as this. If Peter wasn't there, I could have retained a shred of dignity, but then if he hadn't been there, I would have bolted long ago.

She finally drew the needle out and slapped a band-aid over the injection site. I straighten, wincing at the twinge.

The nurse gathered up the stuff and left the room, not wanting to stay after my mortification was through. Peter shook his head at me.

"You'll do anything for attention, Caffrey. Stop being such a baby."

I was so outraged by his callous behavior that I floundered for words.

"Sit down and put your shoes on and we'll go check out," Peter directed.

Again, such barbaric behavior. There was nothing I could really do except sit down and slip my shoes on, and I scrambled for some appropriate revenge for what he had done to me. I tease and pick on Peter all through the week and he bosses me around, but this was something different entirely. And on top of all the manhandling and pushing, it had been two whole minutes and I didn't feel better, so he had lied, too.

At least Kate had been nice when I was sick. She had gotten me medicine and crushed it up in my food without telling me so I got better without having to go to the doctor's or get shots or swallow huge pills. Kate knew I hated admitting I was sick, and she went out of her way to make me feel better, unlike the bully who held out my coat impatiently.

"Put that on. Why are you wearing a tee shirt when it's so cold outside? This is how you got sick in the first place."

I gave him cold silence while we checked out, and I sat stonily in the car as we drove off. I planned not to speak to him until he dropped me of at June's, and then I would tell him what I thought about him. He would hear about it, and he would suffer my wrath and my articulate wit and my barb-like words.

"Here," he handed me a bottle of water that seemed to come from nowhere. "Take one of the sample pills, one of each, and drink all this water."

I did not speak as I put both the pills on my tongue and gulped down the water. It was hard to swallow, especially without being able to breathe through my nose, and I spilled some of the water on my coat.

"Drink it slowly – don't choke," Peter told me.

I capped the water, ignoring the sting of my eyes at the pain of drinking so much, and then I looked out the window.

I realized when we turned on the street that we were gong to Peter's and not June's.

"Why are we here?" I questioned.

"Because I need to work today and you need to rest," Peter parked the car.

"I want to go home," I hated how whiny my voice sounded, but I wanted him to take me home. I would crash on the sofa and resume my task of applying tissues to my sore nose while wishing I would just fall unconscious.

Peter didn't answer, and I climbed the million stairs up to his front door and stumbled into the house. I fell into the nearest chair and concentrated on trying to breathe while Peter went up and down the stairs.

Something dropped into my lap.

"Put those on," Peter instructed as I looked dully at the folded clothes on my lap.

"Huh?"

"Flannel pajamas that El bought and I never wore. You can sleep upstairs in the guest bedroom – it's warming up now. El will be back later this afternoon."

"I don't want to go to bed – I'm staying right here," I leaned my head against the back of the chair.

"You'll feel better after a nap," Peter promised.

All right, I am usually a very well-mannered person. I don't yell, I rarely swear, and I smile politely even when people treat me badly. There have been times I've wanted to tell Peter to shove it, but I haven't.

However, I felt horrible, my whole body hurt, and the medicine wasn't working yet.

"Screw you," I told him. Only, I didn't say "screw."

Peter gave me a look, and then he grabbed my arm, pulled me out the chair, and turned me around. I stumbled, grabbing the arms of the chair to catch myself, and then he slapped my rear hard. I gasped, but he slapped me again.

Very possibly the worst day ever. I had been shoved and belittled and stabbed with a needle, and now the man who had put me in prison for years and enjoyed torturing me was spanking me for not jumping up to follow his every command.

I should have turned around and decked him. I should have sworn some more. I should have threatened to sue him and take the house and his wife and his dog.

What I actually did was burst into tears. My eyes welled up and tears spilled down my cheeks and I wailed, "No, Peter! Don't!"

"Are you going to mind me?" he said, giving me a fourth spank. "You are sick and exhausted and you will feel better once you get some sleep."

"All right, I will," I sobbed.

I don't know how I got upstairs or how my cold hands stripped my clothes off and pulled on the flannel pajamas, but I found myself tumbling into the bed in the guest room. The sheets were cold for a moment, and I shivered for a second as I yanked the covers up. My teeth chattered, and Peter frowned from the doorway.

"Sleep for a while and I'll make up some lunch later," Peter promised. He went over to the thermostat on the wall and adjusted the temperature. I watched blankly as he closed the blinds over the windows, dimming the room, and then he grabbed a quilt out of the closet, unfolded it, and tossed it over me.

My eyes were still leaking sullen tears, but I felt so tired I couldn't muster the energy I needed to tell him that I wasn't cold, that I didn't need a nap, and that I wanted him to leave me alone. I blinked, watching him go out the door and leave it open a few inches, but the bed was swallowing me up fast.

I was very warm now and horribly tired, but my head didn't ache as much as it had, and I felt my sinuses pop and start to clear as I drifted off, the last sound the heat blowing through the vents and Satchmo following Peter through the house.


	3. Water

Thanks to Supergirl for betaing. I'm loving having betas.

-----

I really don't understand why Neal is such a baby. You would think four years in prison would harden a guy, but no, he's the biggest whiner I've ever met. He doesn't like this and he doesn't like that. He committed tons of crimes, but he gets this hurt look on his face every time I'm the slightest bit stern with him. From the look he gave me when getting the shot – you would have thought I was cutting his arm off.

I've never seen a guy look so pitiful and anguished while at the doctor's. I had to bite my tongue to keep from berating him about his paranoia. But that's Neal for you – sensitive, vulnerable, delicate, touchy – give me a break.

I managed to get him in the car and inside my house, but of course, he had to kick up a fuss once we were inside. He moaned about wanting to go home. I would have been happy to drop him off, but El had this thing about leaving people when they were sick. I once had a poker buddy leave in the middle of a game because he was coughing and sniffing. I offered to drive him home, but he said he'd be fine on the bus. Two days later when I heard he was in the hospital with pneumonia, El lit into me and then made me go buy a gift and show up at the hospital to apologize.

I love El to death, but even I don't cross her on some things. She made me promise as she drove me back from the hospital that I would never, ever abandon a sick friend again. I felt like I had left a dying comrade on the battlefield. After that, I took particular care to call friends when they got sick.

As for Neal, I had no doubt in my mind what would happen to me if she found out I left him alone after the doctor's. El hadn't really liked the poker buddy that much and she had developed this sisterly affection for Neal that got on my nerves. She was always asking about him as we got ready for bed at night, wanting to know if he was helping at work, but I flatly refused to talk about him anywhere near sex, before, during, or after. Neal annoyed me all day at work – I should have a few minutes of peace without him when I was with my wife.

I didn't tell any of this to Neal, hoping he would just go along with my orders, but he protested at going up for a nap, even though he looked exhausted. When he swore at me, I grabbed him, turned him around, and started swatting.

Rather than take it like a man, he started crying right away and begging me to stop. I got slightly freaked out when he went upstairs, changed, and got into bed and kept crying.

I can't stand it when women cry, but I accept that women have to cry because they're women. They have to put up with the bone-headed things we guys do, and I don't blame them for getting upset now and then. I've always thought that El was nothing less than a saint to put up with my work schedule and the way I get when I'm closing in on a suspect.

But a guy crying – that's a whole nother world of awkward. I felt torn between telling Neal to man up or I would give him something to cry about and wanting to put my arm around him and tell him to calm down. I've seen Neal cry before. He got all weepy when Kate left him that bottle and he bawled like a baby a week ago when I paddled him. His eyes get all red, and his mouth does this sad little thing, and every instinct inside me that doesn't tell me to shoot him tells me to help him feel better.

He was still crying when he got into bed, and I had the crazy impulse to go sit beside him and put my hand on his shoulder until he got himself under control. That's the weird thing about Neal – he responds really well to any kind of physical reaction. I can rein him in by grabbing his arm and pulling him back. I can get him to shut up by snapping my fingers, or pointing to the door, or even with a simple shake of my head.

But here I didn't know what to do (I wished El was there to give me a clue), so I just went around the room closing up the blinds. As an afterthought, I grabbed a quilt from the closet and put it over him, hoping his teeth would stop chattering. He sniffed, but his eyes were drifting shut as I went out the door. I left the door a few inches open, just so I could hear in case he attempted to bolt.

Satchmo followed me downstairs and stood around while I called work and asked them to messenger over some papers from my office. I explained that Neal had come down sick and I was going to bounce some ideas off him later. I had no argument from them, and I made myself some coffee while I waited for the messenger. Once the kid arrived on his bike and gave me a stack of documents, I tiptoed back upstairs to peek in the guest room.

If Neal were still awake, I was going to get him to prop himself up in bed and discuss the case with me.

From the dim light inside the room, I saw that he was fast asleep in bed. He slept on his back, his face turned to one side. He had kicked off the quilt at sometime, and I crept into the room and pulled it back up over him.

He opened his eyes, and I saw the light blue flicker up to me, but he was too drowsy to wake up fully. He mumbled something incoherent and turned onto his side, snuggling deep into the bed.

"Get some more sleep," I said softly.

He did not move; his dark wavy hair looked almost black against the pillows, and he looked so young with his face relaxed in sleep. Despite his age, he seemed barely more than a kid, lost in the queen-sized bed.

I tugged the quilt up to his chin, hoping he wouldn't kick it off again. He needed to stay warm to recover quicker.

I went back out into the hallway where Satchmo watched me anxiously. "Come on, downstairs," I told the dog.

I parked myself on the sofa, turned on CNN, and started going over the paperwork. I kept the TV turned low enough that I could barely hear it, and I got Satchmo to lie down underneath my legs on the coffee table.

Two hours passed peacefully, and then I heard the floorboards creak upstairs. I got up, went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, and trotted upstairs.

Neal was in the bathroom, but when he came out, he looked a little better, not quite so pale.

"Here," I handed him the bottle. "Drink all that. I'm going to make us some lunch. Why don't you take a bath," I nodded back to the bathroom, "while I fix it?"

"Too cold," Neal wrapped his arms around his torso, clutching the water bottle with one hand. He sounded less stopped up and congested.

"There's a heater in the bathroom," I went and flipped the switch underneath the light switch. The tub was tricky to manage so I put the stopper in and turned the water on. I waited until steam started billowing out, and I told him, "Don't get it too hot. Turn it to the right to get it colder. And don't stay in too long. There's towels in the small closet, and you can put your pajamas back on after you're finished."

"Aw," Neal pouted, "don't make me go back to bed after lunch. I'm not that tired."

"You can sit on the sofa and help me with some paperwork," I told him. "But any nonsense and you're right back up here."

I didn't know what nonsense Neal could get into laying on our sofa, but I found that continually warning him to stay in line helped in the long run. He nodded, and I left the bathroom and headed downstairs again.

In the kitchen, I got some cans of soup and dumped them in a small pot. I rummaged through the refrigerator and found some noodles, green beans, and chicken breasts, all leftovers from other meals. I put them in the soup, added some water, and let it heat up while I put some toast in the toaster oven. I was getting out plates and bowls when I saw the soup boiling over.

I ran to turn it down, and I stirred it quickly before pouring the soup into two bowls. I smelled the burning bread a second before the fire alarm started blaring. Satchmo began to bark loudly, but I grabbed a chair, climbed on it, and yanked the alarm out of the ceiling. I pulled the battery out, and the shrieking alarm went silent.

The bread was black on one side so I grabbed a knife and started scrapping the burnt side. I barely had time to put the food on the table with glasses of water, when Neal came into the dining room.

His hair was all damp, toweled dry a little, and he was barefoot.

"Sit down and eat," I directed him to the seat opposite of El's.

"You cooked," Neal blinked. "I heard the fire alarm upstairs."

"Sit down," I told him, a bit sterner.

We sat and though Neal raised his eyebrows at the blackened toast, he didn't make a comment. He took a few bites of the soup, then frowned.

"My throat still hurts," he admitted. "I feel a lot better, but it still hurts."

"You can't heal in a couple of hours," I told him. "But you need to eat. You got to take another round of antibiotics in an hour, and you shouldn't take too many on an empty stomach."

He didn't protest, and to my relief, he finished the soup and most of the toast. I didn't want to yell at him while he was still sick.

When we were done, I stood up and said, "I'll clean up. You get on the sofa and get comfortable."

I piled the dishes in the sink and grabbed the medicine to keep handy before heading back to the living room. Neal had propped himself up in a corner of the sofa, but he shivered slightly. I grabbed a folded quilt (I had questioned El for buying so many quilts but she assured me they would come in handy, which they did). I unfolded it, and he pulled it over him gratefully.

"Thanks, Peter," he burrowed down into the sofa to get warm.

"Get Satchmo up there with you," I told him. "He'll warm you up. Maybe I should make some tea."

"No!" Neal objected. "You've damaged the kitch – I mean, you've done enough for me already. I'll be fine here with the dog."

"You need more fluids," I frowned as I sat down in a nearby chair. "That's what El's always saying."

Neal nodded in agreement, but then his attention wavered over to the TV. CNN was reporting on some murder, showing a body bag being carried out of a house.

Neal winced. "Can I change the channel?"

"Sure," I agreed. I had no idea that Neal was sensitive about people getting killed. I mean, I don't like it, but it happens, and changing the channel doesn't mean it stops happening. This vaguely reminded me of El. She hates violence, and she doesn't understand why I like to watch all the guy movies like Rambo and Die Hard. I have to change the channel every time Criminal Minds comes on because she gets scared and thinks my job will turn into hunting down serial killers.

Neal flipped around until he settled on AMC which was playing Casablanca. I rolled my eyes, but didn't comment. Trust Neal to like something like that.

I got busy with my work, and he kept the sound down low so I could ask him questions about a few cases. Every so often I urged him to drink more water, and he finally objected,

"If I drink anymore, I'm going to have to pee every five minutes."

"I don't care. Drink the water."

"If I say no, are you going to swat me again?" he snatched up the bottle.

"Probably."

"Jackass," he scowled. "I'm sick."

"You said you weren't sick."

"You like torturing me."

"A little."

He was silent for a second, and then he said, "I should report you."

I laughed and looked at him. He looked like a puppy-dog, sweetly-sad and needy. "You're not going to report me. I'm keeping you in line which you need. You don't do too well with too much freedom."

"That's a terrible argument," he said. He reached up to pet Satchmo's head. "And it's not even true."

"Oh, really?" I challenged. "Have you been tempted to steal as much after getting released into my custody? You stole that painting, but you confessed to me. Would you have done that if you were off on your own?"

Neal opened his mouth to make a brilliant retort, but then he frowned and complained, "It's not fair to question me while I'm sick. I can't think straight, and you're getting me all confused and saying things I don't mean."

"Even if you confess something I don't already know, I wouldn't use it against you," I assured him. "I'm not low enough to trick a confession out of you while you're sick."

"I wouldn't tell you anything, anyway."

I wanted to take him up on that challenge, just to prove that I was as smart and as capable as he was, if not more so, but I decided not to bully him.

"Time for more medicine," I reached for the pills.

"I don't want more," he objected. "I feel better, but that stuff makes me feel kind of jittery inside. I'm tired, but I feel all nervous."

"That's the steroid shot," I replied as I shook the pills out. "That's why I got you to sleep when you could. Those shots usually keep you awake after a few hours."

As I was talking, I put the pills in his hands and motioned for him to swallow them. He did, still listening as I went on,

"But the doctor usually recommends them because they help you heal faster. In a few days, we'll have you hopping around the office and bothering everyone all over again. Finish up the bottle and I'll take it into the kitchen."

He drank the last of the water from the bottle and handed it to me. "I feel like I'm drowning."

"That's just the drainage," I assured him as I stood up.

When I came back from the kitchen with another bottle of water, he let his shoulders slump in defeat. "You are trying to drown me. I drank two bottles and the glass at lunch. Enough already."

"Sinus infections usually dehydrate you," I told him, placing the bottle on the table firmly to let him know that there would be no arguing with me. "Now, stop working yourself up. Just relax and watch the movie."

He gave a look that was definitely a sulk, but he turned back to the TV. After about thirty minutes, he threw the covers off and gave me a mean look before stomping to the bathroom.

I chuckled. Satchmo looked at me, and I said, "Oh, come on, he needs the water. And this is barely a drop in the bucket compared to the years I spent chasing him. I could have made him stay upstairs in bed with nothing to do, but I let him come down here and watch TV. If anything, I'm being too lenient."

A few minutes later, Neal came back to his spot on the sofa, pulled the quilt back up, and glared at the TV. When I didn't comment, he muttered, "You're a jerk."

I grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned off the TV.

"Aw!" he looked at me. "That's just heartless."

"You've had enough TV. You've been watching for an hour. Listen to some of the stuff I got here," I motioned down to the papers spread over my lap.

Neal looked so disgruntled I thought he might refuse, but he nodded.

We went over a few cases and he gave me his best advice which was helpful. I love working with my colleagues at the FBI headquarters, but Neal makes a good partner because he can think like a criminal and he's super smart. Most of the time, we're so busy on the go that we don't have a lot of time to sit and talk over cases carefully. But since he was now trapped on my sofa, I got to ask him question after question and he responded as best he could.

Around four, he started looking a little worn, so I flipped back on the TV and let him watch another old movie on AMC. I got so involved in my work that when I glanced up it was almost five and he was sound asleep again. Satchmo had also fallen asleep.

I smiled – I realized that I liked Neal the best when he was asleep and I didn't have to worry about him getting into trouble or getting hurt. I don't know when it started, but I was feeling very protective of him lately, worrying about him more than I had to.

When I heard El's heels on the stairs, I got up and hurried over to the door. "Shh," I put a finger to my lips when I opened the door. "Neal's here, but he fell asleep."

"Really? Why?" El looked confused.

"He's sick. I took him to the doctor and brought him back to rest. A sinus infection."

"Oh," El made a sympathetic face as she crept in the house. "Is he feeling better?"

"Well, the doctor gave him medicine and a steroid shot. Neal pitched a fit about that. I about had to hold him over the table for the nurse to give it to him. And he fussed about going to sleep upstairs and eating his lunch and then he complained about drinking enough water."

"Oh, baby," El put her hands on my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. "Sounds like you've had a rough day. But you did a good job, taking care of him. I bet you want me to play nurse for while now."

"You don't have to do that," I gave my best martyr's expression. "He's my responsibility after all."

"Nonsense, I want to help, too," El squeezed me in a side hug as we tiptoed in the living room. "Oh, Peter, he's adorable. Look at him and the dog."

"Maybe now, but you should have been here earlier," I grumbled. "He was anything but adorable then."

"I'm very proud of you. But I'll take over for a while. I'm going to fix some supper, and then he can stay up for a while, and we'll send him to bed early. You didn't take him to work today, did you?"

"Please," I shook my head, "it was all I could do to get him to go to the doctors. I had to trick him and say we were going to the pharmacy. Which by the way, one of us needs to go get his prescription filled. I got some samples, but he'll need more tomorrow."

"Why don't you run get them while I fix dinner?" El suggested.

I glanced down at our patient. He hadn't moved, even with the whispering. I thought he would sleep until El got finished with dinner.

"He gives you any trouble," I picked up my keys and my coat, "any trouble and all, and he'll be answering to me when I get back."

"Neal's no trouble," El smiled down at him. "No one that angelic can be trouble."

I highly doubted that, but I kissed her again and headed outside for my car. As I got inside and closed the door, I decided I would pick up a few galleons of water while I was getting his medicine. I would drop a straw in one galleon and hand it to him, telling him he could get up once the whole galleon was gone.

But I felt relieved, too. El was a much better nurse than I was, and if Neal felt a little bit better under my care, he would be feeling worlds better after El saw to him.


	4. Care

Thanks to Fawkes Song for betaing.

-----

I gradually came awake, feeling very warm and comfortable. I didn't want to open my eyes, and I fought against waking up completely. I wanted to drift back into drowsiness, but I made myself wake up.

I was in Peter's living room with his dog cuddled against my leg. I raised a hand to my face. It still felt tender and achy, but my sinuses had cleared for the most part. That's the only good part about being sick – when you finally feel better, it makes you appreciate not having pain or hurt.

I saw the dreaded water bottle on the table, and I knew I would have to go again soon. I considered hiding the bottle so Peter couldn't find it, but knowing him, he would procure one from the kitchen or do something horrid like make me lean over the sink and drink from the running water until it ran out or I drowned.

The man is an absolute beast sometimes.

I should have made a bolt for the door. I should have found a phone and dialed Mozzie to come rescue me. Or called 911 to report a hostage situation and cruel water torture at the hands of a diabolical man who liked to force his victims to take too many naps.

But rather than act on my first impulses, I leaned back against the pillows and called, "Peter?"

Someone moved in the kitchen, and Elizabeth came out. "You woke up," she smiled. She has the sweetest smile – I don't know how she puts up with Peter. "Are you feeling better?"

I should have been a man and shrugged it off, but I shook my head, saying, "No, Peter made me go to the doctor. And then he made me get a shot and come back here. And then I had to drink too much water and he kept making me sleep."

It was partly true though I had only taken two naps, and the second had occurred from me falling asleep on my own, but still –

"And I don't like the medicine, and I feel strange, and I have to wear these god-awful pajamas –"

"I picked those out," her smile lessened.

"I felt bad and I still feel bad and my head hurts," I sounded about five years old at the end.

"Oh, poor baby," Elizabeth came over to the sofa. "I started supper and Peter will be home in a few minutes. If you roll on your side, I'll rub the back of your neck and head. That's what Peter does when I get a sinus infection."

I wanted to complain a little more, but I figured I could let her rub while I complained, so I rolled over. She got Satchmo to climb to the floor, and she sat on the edge of the sofa and put a soft hand on the back of my neck. She pressed her fingers down and began moving them around in small circles.

My complaints vanished from my thoughts, and I sighed deeply. Oh, it felt so, so good! It's been a long time since I had a massage (prison tends not to offer them as a part of your sentence), and I felt myself melting under her touch.

Kate used to rub my back and shoulders, but she's small and it always felt like soft petting which eventually turned into more passionate endeavors. Elizabeth's fingers were stronger and they kneaded down and deep, forcing my tense muscles to relax. She moved her fingers up the back of my head, deep into my hair and pressed all the sensitive nerves she found there.

I groaned and angled my body deep into the sofa, giving her better access to my back and shoulders.

"There you go," I could hear the care in her voice. "That makes it better, all better. Such a sick boy, all sick and sniffly."

Normally, I don't enjoy someone talking to me like I am a small child or animal, but Elizabeth was making me feel so good I didn't want to correct her. I didn't have the strength to do more than groan and moan under her fingers, especially as my sinuses cleared further as she hit all the pressure points.

She put her palm on the middle of my neck and moved my head to one side. My neck popped three times and immediately felt better. She tilted it to the other side; it popped in relief again.

"O-oh," I gasped

"Shh, there you go," she soothed. "You're already feeling better, but it's no fun being sick."

"Peter was mean to me," I mumbled into the sofa.

"Oh, no, he didn't mean to be," she rubbed the top of my shoulders, digging her thumbs into the tight tissue there. "He forgets that sick boys need lots of love and good care to feel better."

My eyes prickled. It had been a long time since a woman took care of me, and she was so sweet while Peter had been stern, and she cared about me and wanted me to feel better which made me feel even more vulnerable and achy inside.

"Don't cry," Elizabeth brushed my hair back from my face. "You're in good hands here. We're going to have dinner and you'll take some more medicine, and we can watch a movie later, and then you'll go to sleep and feel all better in the morning."

"Not hungry," I said, allowing myself to feel sorry for myself just a teeny bit longer.

"No, you have to eat. Food will help settle your stomach. I'm making a noodle casserole and rolls that you can swallow easily and some hot tea for your sore throat."

"It hurts a lot when I swallow," I wondered how long she would soothe me. Peter would have told me to cowboy up a long time ago.

"Maybe some light ice cream after dinner to help your throat. And we'll put a humidifier in your room so you don't get too dried out."

Call me sexist, but women really do make the best nurses. They know just what to say or do when you are sick to make it all better. If Elizabeth had found me at June's, I would have had a much more pleasant day. She wouldn't have made me get the shot or swallow all that water or put on these stupid pajamas or take a nap.

I heard the key in the lock, and I groaned. "Ugh, the Nazi's home."

Elizabeth rubbed my back in sympathy.

Peter came into view, holding two bags of stuff. "What are you doing?" he demanded to his wife.

"Just helping him feel better, like you do with me when I'm sick," she kept rubbing.

"That's a different story," Peter frowned. "Stop pampering him, El. It's his fault that he got sick in the first place."

The rubbing stopped, and she stood up.

I rolled back to give her my best sick puppy look, but she was staring at her husband.

"Yes," Peter set the bags down in a chair. "He was playing around in the rain the other day like – like some kind of goofy Peter Pan and he caught a cold and instead of going to the doctor, he let it get worse until it turned into a sinus infection."

"Neal!" she looked down at me, and I felt like I had in second grade when I got caught sneaking the gerbil out of the classroom.

I gave a sad sniffle.

"I need to finish making dinner," Elizabeth decided and went back into the kitchen.

"Stop looking so pathetic," Peter told me. He gave a half-grin. "Wait until you see what I got while you were playing Sleeping Beauty. Your medicine," he took out two rectangular boxes, "in liquid form. You don't like swallowing pills? You can take it by spoon. A thermometer, to make sure you're not running a fever," he placed a glass thermometer on the coffee table beside the medicine. "Children's Tylenol in case you are, again in liquid form."

"Ha-ha," I scowled at him.

He smiled. "Only the best for you, my friend. What else? A heating pad, an ice pack for the back of your neck, and two whole gallons of water."

He put the plastic on the table, and I stared at them in dismay. So much water.

"And the best part is that I'm taking all of these things out of your monthly allowance. So you're paying for all of them."

"You're evil," I protested.

"Ah, no," he squeezed my shoulder. "You know you must be feeling better if I'm teasing you again."

That was horrible logic, and I pulled away from him as much as I could into the sofa.

"You look better," Peter started putting the instruments of torture back in the bags. "By tomorrow, you'll be on your feet again. But you're not coming back to work until the day after."

Yes, your Majesty.

"Dinner will be ready in five," Elizabeth called from the kitchen.

I sat up slowly, still a little drowsy and dizzy from the steroid shot. "Can I go change?"

"For what?" Peter went into the dining room and started setting the table.

"For supper. I don't want to be in my pajamas."

"They'll be fine," Peter waved my concern away. "You're going back to bed in a few hours anyway. El won't mind."

I stood up, legs slightly shaking. "I mind. I don't want to eat in pajamas."

"Your vanity has no limits," Peter scoffed.

I wanted to yell at him, to twist the whole situation around so he could see how mean he was being. But I just glanced to the floor, my cheeks burning, and tried to rein in my temper.

"Well, if you're going to get upset," Peter gave in. "Upstairs, change. If you're not back in two minutes, I'm coming up after you."

I scurried up the stairs and went back to the guest room. I pulled on my old clothes, feeling a sense of relief when I got the pants belted properly with my tee shirt tucked in. I slipped on my shoes and went back to the dining room.

Elizabeth was putting food on the table, but she said, "What are you doing in a tee shirt? No wonder you're getting sick. Honey, go get him one of your shirts."

Peter shook his head at me as he headed towards his bedroom.

"I hope Peter doesn't let you stroll around New York in nothing," Elizabeth fussed as she found a serving spoon. "I'm going to have him keep an extra coat in the car for you."

I wanted to tell her that I would die before I was seen in public in Peter's clothes, but I thought maybe that wasn't the nicest thing to say to his wife. I gave her a trusting smile and nodded.

Peter brought down the ugliest sweater I had ever seen – some hideous tan thing that no one under seventy would ever wear, but I pulled it on obligingly and we sat down to dinner.

I didn't know if it was the medication or all the gross mucus, but I didn't want to eat anything really, even Elizabeth's good cooking. I fiddled with the handle of my fork until Peter grabbed my plate and held it out for Elizabeth to serve me a huge spoonful of casserole and then two rolls.

They both had goblets of wine, but I got skim milk in a big glass. However, it wasn't water so I decided not to complain. I made myself eat a few bites, but I couldn't taste much. Elizabeth and Peter chatted pleasantly as they ate, all happy in their domesticity and family dinner while I tried to choke down the food and gulp some milk.

Towards the end of dinner as Peter finished a second helping and Elizabeth sipped at her wine, I spread the rest of my food over my plate to make it look like I had eaten a lot. I looked up to see Peter smirking at me, and I dropped my fork self-consciously.

"It's okay, Neal," Peter assured me. "You don't have to eat anymore."

"At least drink the milk," Elizabeth urged.

I swallowed down the cold white stuff and the meal finally ended. I got up to take my plate and glass to the kitchen, but I got herded into the living room and seated back on the sofa, Peter not even considering my offer to help with the dishes.

I meant to look cool and suave on the sofa, but I felt a little cold so I pulled the quilt over me. I couldn't decide if I was going back to June's or if Peter would make me stay the night. Any other time, I would have resented Peter making every decision for me, but I had long abandoned the idea of fighting Peter while I was sick.

"Okay," Peter walked back into the living room, "El says we have to watch a movie of your picking. Can I interest you in something with action?"

"No," I snuggled down into the sofa peevishly, "something romantic."

"You and your bleeding heart," Peter rolled his eyes.

He searched through the stack of DVDs and by the time Elizabeth came out of the kitchen, Peter had started _Sabrina_ on the TV. I liked the old version, but this was the one from the 90's, and I thought I could stomach it for tonight.

Peter sat down on the sofa next to me, and Elizabeth sat next to him. As the movie got under way, Elizabeth whispered something in his ear. Nodding, Peter leaned forward to grab one of the bags and rummaged through it. He found the thermometer, took it out of the bag, and shook it hard.

"Open up," he turned to me.

With a sigh, I took in the thermometer, carefully moving it under my tongue.

"Two minutes," Peter settled back down on the sofa.

Only Peter would buy a glass thermometer instead of those electric kinds, and only Peter would make a grown man in his early thirties sit with one in his mouth beside two other adults like the grown man was some kind of kid. To make it even worse, Elizabeth wore her "Isn't he adorable?" look every time she looked at me.

That was not the impression I wanted to make at their house. I'm supposed to be the young, cool consultant that breezes in and out when he wants with a nonchalant attitude that dazzles Elizabeth and nettles Peter. I'm supposed to keep everyone guessing because I'm a genius and I went to prison and I'm on top of my game. And here I was, curled up on their sofa with a quilt, still a little sick, trying to keep the metal end of a thermometer under my tongue so Peter wouldn't make me hold it under there longer. And of all the carefree, cool things that popped into my head at that moment, I couldn't say a single one because I was afraid I would drop the thermometer and have to start over. Two minutes seemed really, really long.

"That's good," Peter reached over and pulled the thermometer out of my mouth.

I watched anxiously as he turned it between two fingers until he could read the silver bar.

"A little over 99," he reported.

"That's not too bad," I said hastily.

"Better give him a little Tylenol now," Elizabeth advised. "You don't want his fever spiking in the night."

Peter took out the Tylenol and poured the orange stuff in that stupid plastic cup thing that comes with the bottle. I took it from him, refusing to sip it while he held the cup, and I tossed it back like a shot of whiskey. Only, whiskey would have tasted better than that sweet orange-flavor syrup that kids were supposed to like.

I made a face, and Peter chuckled as he handed me a glass of water.

After that, he poured me a dose of the other medicines, each one nastier than the last. While on the TV Harrison Ford got busy keeping Julia Ormond from dating Greg Kinear, Peter piled me with medicines, promising they would help me feel better. They were all awful, and once I had swallowed the last disgusting dose, I leaned against the sofa back and glared at him for being so mean.

He just smiled and patted my knee. "Now, we got that over with and you can enjoy the movie."

I had barely made myself comfortable when he remembered, "Oh, the ice pack –"

"I'll get it," Elizabeth got up from the sofa and padded into the kitchen.

The ice pack turned out to be one of those re-freezable compresses.

Peter took it from his wife. "Lean forward," he instructed.

I did, and he slapped it on the back of my neck.

"Peter!" I jerked forward, trying to get it off, but he kept a strong hand on the compress, pinning it down on my poor neck.

"Lean back," he used his free hand to push me against the sofa. "Keep it on your neck and you won't have a headache."

"Because my head will be frozen?" I twisted, trying to find a comfortable angle to bear the coldness. I wouldn't have minded it so much on my forehead, but on the back of my neck it was excruciating. I did my best not to squirm.

"Stop being such a baby," Peter scolded. "I swear, El, he's helpless."

"All men are when they're sick," Elizabeth snuggled against her husband, and he draped an arm around her shoulder.

Meanwhile, I was in agony, and no one cared about that. I decided to accept my torture so I leaned back against the compress and let my neck go numb from the cold.

Eventually, the cold lessened (or my skin was frozen and didn't know the difference), and I got comfortable again. The medicine made me sleepy, but I tried to keep watching the movie. Harrison Ford was yelling at everyone, and then they were yelling back at him, but I was really too tired to care if they got him back properly or not.

"Neal," something shook my arm. "Neal?"

"Go 'way," I made a face at whoever was pushing me.

"Come on, buddy," Peter said from far away. "It's late, and we're going to get you upstairs to bed."

"Not tired," I refused to open my eyes.

He grabbed me by the upper arms and pulled me to my feet.

"Pe-e-e-eter!" I whined. "Stop."

"You're going up to bed," he announced. "You can decide whether you want to go quietly now or go after a spanking, but you are going to bed."

I opened one eye to scowl at him. "Too tired."

"Up we go," Peter braced himself against me and started walking me up the stairs. I stumbled and tripped, but he kept me going.

Once upstairs in the bedroom, I managed to fumble with my clothes long enough to get back in my pajamas and collapse into bed. The bed was cold, but I didn't care as I flopped down on the pillow. I heard a humidifier humming around the room, blowing mist into the air.

"Don't you want to brush your teeth?" Peter chuckled somewhere over me.

I mumbled into the pillow, not even opening my eyes.

"Get some sleep," he told me.

That was rather stupid – what else was I going to do in bed at his house? It was a shame I was too exhausted to make a scathing reply.

"Later, when you're better, we'll talk about running around in the rain and not taking care of yourself," Peter promised.

Had I been fully awake, I might have constructed a brilliant argument against him to make sure he understood that he had lost and I had won, but I couldn't even talk.

"Good night," Peter turned the light off.

"Is he tucked in?" Elizabeth's voice came from somewhere. "You got him to bed? Now, _that_ is too sweet."

"You've got to stop babying him," Peter insisted. "He's a grown man, fully capable of taking care of himself. And I'm going to see that he takes better care of himself in the future."

"Oh, honey, don't be too cross with him. He's not used to being out on his own."

The door shut, sealing off their conversation.

As I tumbled into sleep, I knew I wasn't going to let him get on to me about being out in the rain. I could decide if I wanted to dance in the rain every day and sing in it, too. And I fully planned to pay him back for all the annoying kindness he had shown me in the last twelve hours.

He should really go into the medical business – no one would dare get sick if they knew that brute would be taking care of them. So annoying!

The End


End file.
